I'm terrible at goodbyes and apologies. I'm awkward and fumble with my words and I just, I hate goodbyes. I'm hate when you know it'll be a while before you see them. Like when I used to visit my friend Caitlin while she was living in DC, when it came time for me to go home, I just wanted to run off instead of maybe get teary and all goofy. I was even terrible at casual goodbyes, like on dates. Drew says I used to just say "BYE!" and sprint to my front door, where I thought I was lingering long enough for him to kiss me. This happened a number of times.
I do not think I've ever had an anxiety attack before, by the grace of God. But a few days after having Thomas home from the hospital, I came close. I was low on sleep, struggling to feed him without formula, and just a bit of a mess. I was headed for a much-needed shower while either Drew or my mom held Thomas.
Dad was on my mind, and I couldn't push it away. I wanted to keep his memory at bay for the moment, for entire days actually, to just not think of him at all, because I was too exhausted to process the feelings.
The lump in my throat stuck, and it was hard to breathe for a few seconds. I couldn't swallow. I felt like I was swallowing my tongue. I put my hands on the tile walls of the shower to steady myself, and I tried to think of anything but Dad, anything else. I tried to push the thought away: "Why. Aren't. You. Here." I tried not to be angry with God because I know he is not punishing us with Dad's plane crash and absence from our lives. God is still here and God is still good and God is still love. But ... my dad is still gone.
My heart breaks for our loss, for all of us: my brother, my mom, my husband, my sister in law, Dad's friends, and his grandchildren, who will know all about him, but they will not know him.
I owe Dad an apology. He has seemed distant lately, and he usually feels so close, through God's grace and his friends and my mom and my brother, his memory keeps him right there, so close that he is almost still with us. But I think he's been distant since my sob-session in the shower that first week of Thomas' life. For over a month, I have tried not to think of Dad, for the first time since his death.
I'm sorry for pushing your memory away. I'm sorry for being too scared to look at your picture for fear the tears will come. Usually, your smile in the frame brings a smile to my face. So what if it brings tears right now? Let em roll. Let me be brave enough to embrace your memory, whatever emotions it may bring with it.
Dad has seemed quite close since he physically left us through ways I cannot always explain, so it was hard to understand where this distant feeling was coming from - but I figured it out this week. It's coming from me. And for that, I am sorry.
My dad's memory is worth sharing with my son. If it brings tears, let Thomas learn from the very beginning that life is beautiful and it is also filled with pain. Let him learn that the fear of losing people you love is no reason to love less.
Let my dad teach Thomas (and Clare, and the others, Lord willing) that we should love with abandon, live life fully, get dirty, run around outside, make friends, be nice to people when it's awkward or hard, be generous, work hard.
I need my Dad's memory in my life. I love hearing his voice through Gentry's voice. I love hearing his silly jokes through Jim & Bobby (and the inappropriate ones, too.) I love William telling me when I remind him of Tom, even if he is only saying it to be nice.
Dad, I'm sorry for thinking maybe we should keep you at an arms distance because it is hard without you. We never said goodbye, and how appropriate that is, I think, because you're really not gone.
Let us love with abandon, and may wild, fun-loving, God-fearing, do-it-yourself boys named Thomas continue to fill this Earth.
Oh Lord, please let us love.
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